


Bigger Than My Body

by Amberly



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Anger, Multi, PTSD, anger as anxiety, depictions of rage, halsey-freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberly/pseuds/Amberly
Summary: For a moment, she remembers what it is to create. To get her hands into something and build, a steady rise she collapses to rise again, lips curved in an almost-there smile. Relena turns the dough over, tension seeping out of her like butter. Like yolk from an egg.





	Bigger Than My Body

**Author's Note:**

> This unbeta'd ficlet is part of the Halsey collection, which is linked here! This is my second ficlet based on a Halsey song. The inspiration for this fic is both "Gasoline" and "Control," off Badlands. Please take a look at the Hopeless Kingdom collection and see all the other wonderful work done by claraxbarton, GoodIdeaAtTheTime, and Kangofu_CB. They're truly amazing pieces of work!
> 
> Relena is an incredibly important character to me. She's one of those characters who has so much potential that I really feel was never really explored by the writers. What I wanted to do here was give her a lot of anger. She's spent her whole life having to act a very specific way in order to achieve her ends, and I imagine it gets harder as she gets older. Corporate America is NOT the ESUN, but I imagine she and I have the same struggles: having to learn how to carefully lead a bunch of men twice your age in the direction you want them to go while being careful not to crush their egos. I wanted her to be angry, and I wanted her to EXPRESS that anger, violently. And I wanted the people who reigned that anger in to do so violently as well. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

Diplomacy is a chipped tooth. It's a cracked molar, rubbing Relena’s cheek raw as she stands or sits pretty. Smile and wave and gentle, polite suggestion at the conference room table. She stalks the halls of her home like a Jabberwock, hair long and loose and unbrushed, wearing yoga pants and a teeshirt stolen from Trowa’s closet, unmade and brittle. It's the ambassador. The one from L2 that Duo knows is dirty but can't enough on to bring in. His oil slick grin is a reminder of every life he lost, every hollowed out church. Every unvaccinated child burned to death in fever.

It's too much. Feels like being Queen without a kingdom again. Those rough months tucked away with Treize, a glorified chess piece. The silky, rose-scented threat of violence. Dorothy’s clipped “Miss Relena” a cadence that sits heavy in her stomach, echoed by a man twice her age who refuses to give her title. A Red Queen who wants to hold her arm as they walk, to see her married and pregnant and out of his way, headless for good. Duo leashed, shackled, the rest of the pilots tried for war crimes, and she--she has to play nice. Sweet simpering Relena with wide eyes, diminutive and careful as she navigates a pit of snakes, cogs in a machine she no longer wants to be part of.

She's in the kitchen when she snaps.

Her sanctuary is crowded, full of foreign chefs who don't understand, hired hands that look at her aghast, a fallen princess willingly at a counter. Carefully manicured fingers gratefully kneading a loaf of bread, lost in the familiar, softstiff give of the dough. For a moment, she remembers what it is to create. To get her hands into something and build, a steady rise she collapses to rise again, lips curved in an almost-there smile. Relena turns the dough over, tension seeping out of her like butter. Like yolk from an egg.

“That is too much. The bread will be flat,” it's scathing and male, belongs to a pompous chef with a paunch, and Relena’s hands clench. She withdraws them to stalk towards one of the many prepared trays, the arrays of food and drink and flowers. There will be croquet later in the garden and it's pointless and stupid and Relena wants to grow until she's big enough to stomp it out. She is surrounded by humming, by buzzing bees. These are workers. They are hired to do a job, only want to help, do the best they can. Want a paycheck to feed their family. But she is both the lit match and the kindling, picking up a bottle of wine.

“Put that down,” the same voice barks. “That bottle of champagne is over a hundred years old!” And she doesn't know who he thinks she is. She doesn't care. She just smiles, sweet and demure and suddenly full of teeth as she throws the bottle as hard as she can at the wall. It shatters with what's left of her control. There is food on the ground, shattered crystal and a spray of flowers. Relena is screaming, so loud it feels like her throat will burst. Like she will open her mouth and spill blood the same way she’s spilling wine, spilling expensive bourbon, coating marble tile in the party politicians have paid to enjoy.

There’s enough money pooled stick on the floor to pay the whole staff for a month when Duo gets there. He grabs her wrist as she hefts a bottle. She pivots and swings and he ducks. It's almost as familiar as the bread. She throws the vodka and it doesn't shatter, caught by deft acrobat hands, and goes for Duo instead. The fight is short and dirty and she ends up flat on her back with her hair in a puddle of vodka. Duo sits on her stomach, holds her wrists, and she throws all of her weight upwards with a hiss. Almost succeeds in throwing him, but she knows that glint in his eyes. The fierce clench of his jaw that tells her he's done playing, that there is danger and glass and he will put her body’s safety above her mind’s every time. She goes limp and gives in, Trowa standing guard in an empty room.

“You promised to tell us before it got this bad.” She closes her eyes against his voice. The soft southern lilt, the concern. Later, she knows, he will be rough. Teeth and nails. The three of them will go to bed for sex that is more like fighting until she is breathless and exhausted. Until she has won, beaten them both. She swallows, hard, letting the weight become a comfort, instead of a hindrance.

“I know,” she murmurs, opening her eyes to look into endless violet. “I lied.”

“That is apparent.” Trowa snorts and opens the bottle, takes a long drink. Makes a face. “Oh, god. This is horrible. What did you pay for this? Princess, you were robbed.” Duo’s eyes close. The look on his face is one of affection and exasperation and she laughs. She laughs and laughs, even as he helps her up. Even as Trowa hands her the bottle, the both of them grinning wide, her Cheshire Cat and Mad Hatter. She feels like Alice, suddenly right size again.

 


End file.
